


Thirty Pieces

by Temeritous



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Cannibalism, Dark Dragonborn, Gen, M/M, Mutilation, Necromancy, Self-Mutilation, Stormcloak Rebellion, Stormcloaks (Elder Scrolls), mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23110345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temeritous/pseuds/Temeritous
Summary: Ulfric learns what he is willing to sacrifice to become High King of Skyrim, with the help of the Dragonborn.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 39





	1. Bone

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Тридцать сребреников](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26022595) by [m_izar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_izar/pseuds/m_izar)



> I don't know what to say about this except that it came to me in a dream and it won't leave me alone.

Ulfric watched the Dragonborn’s approach out of the corner of his eye, while he pretended to listen to Galmar on his right. Galmar wasn’t saying anything he hadn’t heard a dozen times before, and the mixed mutt striding so confidently into Ulfric’s hall was dangerous for more than just his Voice.

Galmar broke off when he noticed the other man rounding the long table. Ulfric leaned back in his throne, knees spread and his head propped up on one elbow lazily. It was calculated to leave the impression of power, but something told him that the Dragonborn wasn’t fooled.

The man stopped in front of Ulfric’s throne and bowed at the waist, as deeply as one would to a king. He came up smiling.

Fane was dressed much the same as the first time Ulfric saw him, although he was considerably richer in jangling jeweled necklaces, rings, and bracelets. The red robe was closed over dragon-skin breeches and horker-skin boots, belted closed at the waist but opening upwards to reveal a simple white shirt and the necklaces. At some point he’d acquired a mantle and hood made of black snowbear fur, a creature so rare any Nord would be happy just to see one, and this hood he pulled down now to show his face.

If Ulfric weren’t an educated man, he might have thought that the creature in front of him was half Argonian. But he knew that the beast races couldn’t interbreed so easily, which meant that the sharp features and sharper teeth must be a product of man and mer. His ears weren’t round enough to be fully human nor tapered enough to be fully elf, his eyes gold on white, his skin paler than a Nord’s and altogether too flawless. His jaw looked like it had never needed to see the sharp edge of a straight razor. Nobody was quite sure what parentage had produced the Dragonborn, and the man wasn’t telling.

“I’ve heard that you’ve been looking for me, my lord,” said Fane, almost too soft for Ulfric to hear. Ulfric knew the man wanted him to have to lean forward to listen. He refused.

“I was,” Ulfric confirmed. “Although the mission I wanted to hire you for has already been resolved while you dallied.”

The Dragonborn smiled. His teeth gleamed through that pale mouth. “I take it you were not able to reclaim the Crown?”

Ulfric’s fist clenched on the arm of the throne. In a tight, unhappy voice, he said, “No, we were not. No thanks to you.”

“My deepest apologies; I was detained on another errand.”

He compared the mission to retrieve the Jagged Crown to an errand. Like it was a trip to the market to pick up fresh fish for dinner. The insult boiled Ulfric’s blood, but he had to keep himself under control.

“Perhaps there is something I can do to make it up to you,” said Fane.

Ulfric and the amassed forces of the Stormcloaks were on course to leave Windhelm tomorrow morning, moving out on the road to Whiterun. The five day march would end at the gates of a city forewarned and well-prepared to fend them off. The Dragonborn’s help would be a boon; this wasn’t a battle Ulfric could afford to lose.

“Let’s talk in my war room,” he said, standing up. He was glad to find that Fane was half a head shorter.

The Dragonborn followed along amiably, and Galmar closed the door behind them.

“This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with the army camped outside your walls, would it, my lord?” Fane asked. His tone was always so light, almost teasing, as though he couldn’t understand the seriousness of anything. The enchanted bracelets on his wrist clicked together softly as he raised one hand to brush a lock of gray hair out of his eye. “I only ask because I saw a similar sight outside Whiterun not three days ago… although theirs was bigger.”

Ulfric told himself that his spies had already confirmed Balgruuf’s Imperial reinforcements. This wasn’t new information, though the reminder was unwelcome.

“We lay siege to Whiterun in five days’ time.” Ulfric growled, sweeping a hand over the battle plans on the war table. 

Fane looked, head tilted. After a moment of consideration, he said, “I can ensure your victory in Whiterun.” Head still bent to the table, his bright gold eyes flicked up and met Ulfric’s. Half a smile played around one corner of his mouth. “For a price.”

“Sir, we do not need the help of this _extortionist--_ ”

“Be _silent_ , Galmar,” Ulfric snapped, too harshly. He took a calming breath. “I’m sorry, old friend. But I will hear his price.” The would-be High King turned to the Dragonborn, already calculating how much he could afford to spare from his war chest. Too much and his army might go hungry; too little and they might be slaughtered for no gain at all.

Fane was still smiling that crooked little thing. “I don’t want your gold or your jewels, my lord. Just one… little… tooth.”

Ulfric’s brows drew together frowning. “I think I must have misheard you.”

Fane didn’t repeat himself, just raised one hand. The first three fingers were adorned with armored, segmented rings ending in sharp steel claws, and he tapped the index finger’s claw against his left eye tooth. “This one, specifically.”

Ulfric automatically tongued the same tooth in his own mouth. It was as blunt as a molar compared to Fane’s. “Are you… serious?” he asked, lip curling.

“He likely wants to work some black magic with it, sir. They can do that with blood and hair, I’ve heard. Probably stronger with something as important as a tooth.” Galmar glared at Fane, hand on the mace at his hip.

Fane turned his faintly amused look on Galmar, giving Ulfric a much-needed reprieve. “I’ll swear on any god you care to name that I won’t use it for any ‘black magics.’”

“Then what purpose could you possibly want it for?” Ulfric demanded. It was a bizarre request.

“I’m thinking of starting a collection.” Fane answered with a simple shrug.

Galmar said something else to the Dragonborn, but Ulfric was too distracted to listen. A tooth in exchange for Whiterun?

Ulfric had first seen what Fane could do at Helgen.

_A strange foreign fire filled his veins and his head, and he did not question it. Ulfric picked up a discarded sword and shield, the pain in his twisted knee faint and forgotten. The man in the red robe took point, a ghostly glowing armor manifested over him. They slaughtered the torturers in the dungeon too late to save their fellows, and slaughtered more Imperial dogs in the caves. The warrior Enthor walked half the way with a feathered arrow sprouting from his chest, swinging his claymore hard enough to cleave through bone, though he didn’t speak a word after he was shot. He didn’t even make a sound when the bear struck him down with a crushing blow. And outside in the snow, watching the dragon Alduin fly away, the fire left Ulfric and he collapsed. He came to hours later, carried on a stretcher between Ralof and Wulf, and was told that the red-robed mage had left for Whiterun._

Ulfric’s knee still wasn’t the same after walking and fighting on it for that long. He wasn’t sure he would have made it out of Helgen if not for Fane.

“Swear it on all nine Divines,” Ulfric heard himself say. “And you’ll have your reward when I stand in Balgruuf’s Great Hall.”

Fane’s head bowed briefly before he offered Ulfric his arm for a warrior’s clasp. Ulfric took it and felt the tips of three clawed rings pricking against his bare forearm. Fane’s gold eyes bored into his. 

“Akatosh and Arkay, Mara and Dibella, Stendarr and Zenithar, Kynareth and Julianos, and Talos; on these nine Divines I do swear that I shall never work any magic on Ulfric Stormcloak, and that my soul shall be banished to the Void should this oath be broken.”

“So mote,” Ulfric murmured, impressed in spite of himself. There wasn’t a truer oath that could be made; he’d half expected the Dragonborn to leave himself some sort of loophole.

* * *

“Enough! I surrender! Peace! Everyone stand down. That’s an order. Stand down!” Balgruuf was on one knee, held up by the axe stabbed into the wooden floor. He staggered upright but left the axe where it was, showing his empty hands to the advance guard.

He stared down his attackers until he saw that the surrender was accepted, until the last sword was sheathed and the last mace returned to its strap. What few of his guards remained alive laid down their own weapons and shields, although they didn’t look happy about it.

Balgruuf’s eyes were drawn to movement at the door of the Great Hall, and he watched Ulfric Stormcloak throw both doors open wide and stride through them. Balgruuf folded his arms as the leader of the rebellion ascended the stairs.

“Ulfric.” Balgruuf greeted. Ulfric stopped a few paces away from him and crossed his own arms. “I’ll admit I’m surprised to see you here. I did not think you’d dare to set foot outside your stronghold.”

“I would not miss this day,” Ulfric replied. “Though I am glad to have won, I would have preferred us not to fight at all.”

Balgruuf glanced at the doors again as another figure came in, though this one used only one door. “And Vignar Graymane. Now it becomes clear.”

“It’s nothing personal,” Vignar said, coming up to stand next to and slightly behind Ulfric. “The Empire has no place in Skyrim, just as you have no place in Whiterun.”

Balgruuf looked back to Ulfric. “Do you think you’ve won anything? Today you have Whiterun, yes. But you’ll spread your forces too thin trying to take the rest of Skyrim, and what then? Will you fight the Dominion alone? We need the Empire as much as the Empire needs us.”

“I’ll be part of no Empire that forbids me from worshipping my god.” Ulfric replied. “Whatever consequences that decision may bring me. Every man out there, living or dead, feels the same way, or he would not be with me.”

“You will doom us all for your pride, and Skyrim with you,” Balgruuf snarled.

“I will save us… and if I cannot do that, we will at least die as Nords should.” Ulfric turned away from Balgruuf, dismissing him. “Vignar, the city is secured--see to your people. Fane… I believe I have a debt to pay.”

Balgruuf followed Ulfric’s line of sight to see Fane leaning against one of the pillars. “ _You_ ,” he accused. “A Stormcloak? You’ll come to regret this day.”

Galmar sneered. “The debt must be honored, though I don’t think we needed the mage’s help.”

“You may think what you like,” Fane replied. He pushed off the pillar and approached the Jarls, reaching into the breast pocket in his robe. He produced a pair of clean iron tongs, more commonly seen in dungeons. “So long as I get what I was promised.”

“ _Here?_ ” Galmar demanded. “Can you not wait until after the fires have cooled and the dead have been counted?”

Ulfric answered before Fane could. “I told him he would have his reward when I stood in the Great Hall, Galmar, and here we stand. I’ll not be an oath-breaker for this.”

Galmar subsided, still scowling.

“Will you do it, or shall I?” Fane asked, holding up the tongs at arms’ length from Ulfric. “I’ll admit I’ve had some practice in the area. I can make it quick.”

“I am not a child to be coddled,” Ulfric snatched the tongs away.

And, to Balgruuf’s growing revulsion, put them to his own mouth. There was a ringing silence as Ulfric’s knuckles went white on the handles, his arm tensed visibly, and then the tooth ripped away with horrible sucking tearing noise, so loud it seemed to echo.

Ulfric quickly released the tongs’ prize into his other hand--shaking ever so slightly--and gave both to the Dragonborn with jerky movements. His fingers curled into fists and he shoved them under his arms as though suddenly chilled. His lips were pressed tightly closed, just slightly too dark and wet at the seam; his throat bobbed several times in a row, swallowing.

“Thank you, my lord,” Fane said, bowing deeply. The tongs and the tooth were already gone, squirrelled away into his robe.

Ulfric turned away from him without another word, but caught Balgruuf’s wide, horrified gaze. He met it with a hard look of his own.

Balgruuf’s jaw clenched. “He came to me first,” he said, quietly. “But I was not desperate enough to say yes. That creature might be able to make you a High King, Ulfric, but you will have to pay for it. I know not what he will take from you next time.”

Ulfric shook his head and did not respond.


	2. Flesh

Ulfric stared blindly over the war table, hands planted on either side of the map, and tried to see a way through.

Fort Neugrad was a nearly unmitigated disaster. The loss of every prisoner a heavy blow to morale, and at the end the keep was won by luck--a set of rotten stairs giving out under the last Imperial holdouts, dumping them sixteen feet onto the earth below. His Stormcloaks couldn’t even celebrate an honorable victory.

Doubt crept in. Perhaps Balgruuf hadn’t been wrong about spreading his forces.

The plan was to advance through three more forts as quickly as possible, but indecision paralyzed him. With more time to train the recruits that always trickled in, they might have better odds; but the same could be said for the Empire.

A footstep scuffed behind him, and Ulfric whirled, one hand going to Stormblade at his hip.

Fane raised both hands with an easy smile, showing that they were empty. “Sorry if I started you, my lord. It’s just me.”

Ulfric didn’t relax, although he let go of his sword’s hilt. “What do you want, Dragonborn?”

“How goes the war?” Fane asked, avoiding the question. “You hear a lot of rumor when you travel as much as I do, but I never know what to believe.”

“Well enough,” Ulfric said gruffly, turning back to the map dismissively. The scores in the candle holding down the corner told him that it was nearing midnight; he should go to rest soon.

Fane stepped up next to him instead of taking the hint. “Fort Sungard, right?”

The campaign was there to read if you had eyes and the know-how. Ulfric grunted.

Ulfric was near chronically exhausted these days; Windhelm was a cold city, and the chill was difficult to chase away from the new gold-plated implant in his mouth, which ached at night. He shoved away from the table a couple steps and scrubbed one hand over his face. “What do you want, Fane?”

Fane was still looking over the map, mouth turned up in that irritating smirk. He traced the line of advance with one claw. “Sungard, Snowhawk, Hraggstad. Not easy targets.”

The words and the tone made Ulfric pause. Three more targets that he couldn’t afford to lose or even win by anything but a large margin, and he had three more canines left. Was that worth it?

He came back to the table, crossing his arms to disguise the tremble that had returned. In a low voice, he asked, “Are you offering your assistance again?”

Fane turned blazing gold eyes on him, smiling with all his too-sharp teeth. “No, I don’t think I’ll need assistance. I can raise the Stormcloak flag over those forts much more easily without your men getting in my way.”

Ulfric remembered Balgruuf’s warning.

“And what will these gifts cost me?” Ulfric asked, very nearly managing to keep his tone casual.

He was prepared to see the tongs again. He was not prepared for Fane to pull on his bicep, to take his hand when he uncrossed his arms, to lay that hand out flat on the table. He couldn’t possibly think--

“Sungard,” said Fane, tapping his claw against the tip of Ulfric’s left little finger. “Snowhawk,” a pinprick on the second joint of the same, “and Hraggstad.” The last joint, up to the knuckle.

Ulfric didn’t bother pretending to think he’d misheard Fane this time.

It was his off hand, and Ulfric had never been great at dual wielding anyway. He preferred to strap a shield to his left arm, the better to duck an arrow or bash an enemy to the side. It wasn’t a crippling amputation by any means. It was nothing compared to what Ulfric first thought he was asking for--the whole hand at the wrist. That he could not have borne.

“And what, I ask, are you going to do with my finger?”

Fane turned around and sat on the edge of the table, facing Ulfric. He leaned back on his hands, toothy grin fading out to the ever-present smirk. “I’m going to eat it,” he said. He put his weight on one hand, raising the other to pull one of his necklaces from the tangled mass. It was a thin leather strip looped through a delicate gold setting, into which a familiar tooth was set. “And then I think I’ll string the bones onto this.”

Ulfric didn’t even try to keep the contempt off of his face. He avoided looking at the prize Fane had put on display. “You are a _disgusting_ beast.”

Fane let the necklace fall back against his chest and leaned forward, his shoulder brushing Ulfric’s for a moment before the man jerked away. He said softly, “Yes, but I’m a very useful beast, aren’t I? Ask anyone. Do you want to win, my lord? Three very strategic forts, not one drop of Stormcloak blood spilled to take them.”

Ulfric walked away from him, pacing a few circles around the war room. He kicked one of the chests in the corner.

“Oh, I lie,” said Fane, watching him. “There will likely be a little blood--when I take what I’m owed.” Then he said nothing more.

If only he would try to persuade Ulfric. If only he gave any indication that this was something he truly wanted, something he needed. Ulfric could say no, secure in the knowledge that he was doing the right thing by denying the mutt some important ingredient for his next dark work. But Fane’s tone was so light, nonchalant, as though it didn’t matter to him if Ulfric agreed or not. 

He could ask for money or jewels, land or title, and be granted any of those things in an instant. He asked instead for something Ulfric didn’t want to give him.

“Have you no greed?” Ulfric demanded, his throat hoarse. “Are you not a man? Have you no desire for women or gold or power? If it is pain you like, I have dungeons full enough to sate your appetites. What purpose do you serve in chipping away at _me_?” Ulfric took a few quick steps to Fane and shoved the mutt back onto the table, pinning him with his fists twisted up in the robe and the necklaces. Fane’s hands came up to cover Ulfric’s as though holding them in place. “Answer me!”

Fane transfixed Ulfric with his gold eyes and said, “Money is as easy to come by as water, and women follow money. Power? It is an illusion. You’re right; I like pain. Not the amateurish torture you inflict in the dark, pitting meager skill against the mortal shell, for however long either endures. I prefer to watch a man break himself.” 

The Dragonborn’s eyes had an unholy gleam, wide and excited. It was the most emotion Ulfric had ever seen on him. Fane lifted his head, his lips nearly to Ulfric’s ear as he whispered, “I hand him the knife, and he cuts into himself.”

Ulfric shoved him down again and backhanded him across the face. The blow sent Fane’s skull bashing against the wooden table so hard it bounced, and blood leaked out of the mutt’s open mouth while his head lolled. Ulfric stepped away, wary of reprisal even as he wondered if he’d truly hurt the creature.

Fane laid there with his eyes closed for a long moment, taking in a deep breath. He licked at his split lip, smearing more blood down his chin. He started laughing.

 _He is mad_ , Ulfric realized.

Fane sat up, grinning as if to show off his reddened teeth. He leaned over the edge of the table and spat a mouthful of blood and saliva, then worked his jaw for a moment. “It’s been a long time since someone dared to hit me, you know,” he said to Ulfric, conversationally. He hopped off the table and spat again, leaving another little splash on the stone. 

“Do we have a deal?”

* * *

When news came from a scout that the Stormcloak flag was flying over Sungard, Galmar was surprised. He turned to Ulfric, perhaps expecting to share the feeling, and instead found the Jarl staring into the distance with his jaw clenched.

Galmar waved a hand to dismiss the agent from the war room, and asked, “Jarl Ulfric, do you know what’s going on?”

“I did not truly think he could do it. Who can take a fort without an army behind him?” Ulfric asked rhetorically. “I only pray that he breaks his neck upon Hraggstad’s walls. We can take one. We can afford that much.” He’d been afraid Fane would return between conquests, demanding his reward one piece at a time, but he would have reached Windhelm well before the scout if that was the case.

“Ulfric, what have you promised him?” Galmar snatched at the edge of Ulfric’s bear cloak, jostling him out of a reverie. “Ulfric!”

Ulfric looked down at his hands, fingers of his right encircling the little finger on his left. “Nothing important,” he replied. “Did the scout say how it was done? How he took a fort alone?”

Galmar frowned but didn’t press further. “There were dragons sighted in the area. That’s all we have until we get information about what’s inside.”

Ulfric imagined a dragon dropping down out of the sky, snatching up helpless soldiers to swallow them into its gullet. Unbidden, the image changed into Fane, teeth bared as he closed his mouth over Ulfric’s little finger. The Dragonborn’s jaw snapped shut like a beartrap, and in one moment of scalding pain he took his payment and ate it whole.

Ulfric shuddered and shook off the nightmare.

“Tell me when he takes Hraggstad.” Ulfric ordered. He turned and left for his living quarters.

* * *

When the Dragonborn took Hraggstad, Ulfric was the first to know.

It had been a long night of fitful rest, sleeping for an hour or so before something woke him. A candle burning too brightly, the furs too heavy and then too cold, the ache of his missing tooth and the uncounted other scars and old injuries. Ulfric laid staring unblinking up at the stone ceiling, arms crossed behind his head, wondering if it was too early to give up on sleep yet.

The door creaked open.

If it was an assassin, he thought for a moment he might welcome them with open arms and a bared neck. Then he rolled out of bed, snatched up Stormblade, and laid the tip against the intruder’s collarbone.

“Fane,” Ulfric spat, recognizing the mutt by the clink of his jewelry. The room’s single candle did little more than turn the room into a landscape of shapeless gray shadows. He didn’t lower his blade. “I ought to take your head off right here.”

“What an exciting way to begin the day,” Fane replied. He raised one hand under the sword and pushed it up to get the tip off his skin, then stepped to the side. 

Ulfric let it fall, standing up straight as he did. He returned Stormblade to its sheath and leaned it back against the side of the bed, then went around the head of the bedframe to stoke the fire and add some logs.

Fane watched, eyes reflecting the rising dim light. “Your flag now flies above three more forts. I’ve come to collect.”

Ulfric stared into the fire, musing that it didn’t feel at all dangerous to have the Dragonborn behind him unobserved. The danger came from seeing him, from hearing him speak. “I’ve had reports from the garrisons occupying Sungard and Snowhawk,” Ulfric said, putting his hands out to warm them over the fire. He stared at the left one, then clenched it into a fist. “What they found when they moved in.”

“I’m not much for cleanliness,” Fane said. He came over and stood next to Ulfric, tucking his arms into the opposite sleeves instead of over the flames. “I hope they at least were able to find the bodies?”

“In pieces, mostly.”

“Excellent. I tried to keep the blood off the rugs, you know.”

“The bones had teeth marks on them. Human and animal.” The heat from the fire felt like it was putting a sunburn on Ulfric’s face.

“Humans _are_ animals,” Fane was amused. “Though some are better than others at pretending not to be. Why, the most human man I ever met was a murderer in your very own city.”

Ulfric’s lip curled. “The necromancer? He was as much a beast as you.”

“No animal has ever thought it could bring back the dead. That’s a purely human affliction.”

“And the reports of dragons?” Ulfric asked, moving on.

“I command them, though it’s not difficult to get them to attack people. It’s commanding them to stop that’s tricky. Are you afraid?”

“What?” Ulfric said automatically, startled by the non sequitur. “No. Afraid of what?”

“Paying for my services,” Fane said, his words and tone making it sound far more lewd than he had any right to. “You seem to be avoiding the topic.”

“I’m not.” Ulfric’s own voice was flat, unemotive. “How are you going to remove it? I’m sure you noticed, we’re not exactly in my dungeons, and I don’t keep those sort of tools up here.”

“I suppose I could bite it off, if you like.” Fane offered, grinning to show that he was fully capable of following through. “Although if you prefer a more civilised approach, I brought these.”

He produced another pair of iron tongs topped with sickle-like blades curved toward each other. Ulfric recognized the shape from his time with the Thalmor; they’d only been a threat then. These ones gleamed in the firelight, full of promise.

“Ever done this before?” Fane asked, his tone light as he held up the shears and snapped them. “It takes a lot of force at first, but with enough practice, you learn how to aim between the bones. Then it’s as easy as cutting through a carrot.”

Fane’s words rang through Ulfric’s head, even as he snatched the shears away. _I give him the knife, and he cuts into himself._ But Ulfric wouldn’t let Fane do it to him, so what choice did he have?

The metal closed slowly around the base of his little finger, as cold as ice. It had just been resting against Fane’s chest inside his warm robe; it should be warm with his body heat. This was the wrong thing to be focusing on, but it was all Ulfric could think of.

Fane’s hand joined Ulfric’s on the grip. Almost gently, he repositioned them lower down, angled slightly. “Right there,” he murmured. He was too close. Ulfric could feel the heat of the fire on his face and nothing at all from the creature next to him.

 _I am not a coward_ , Ulfric reminded himself, and pulled the handles together.

It was a constricting sharpness, then a spear of pain radiating up his wrist that faded out somewhere in his forearm. Ulfric gripped it tightly, until the handles met against his palm, knowing that if he didn’t get all the way through the first time, the second cut would be worse. When the shears came away, his finger came with them, stuck between the blades.

Feeling almost calm now, he raised his left hand to the level of his shoulder and presented the shears to Fane, the amputated digit sticking straight up. A few drops of blood dripped from the end.

Fane took them, plucking the finger off at the same time the shears disappeared back into his robe. He put the bloody end in the corner of his mouth, the rest sticking out like a grotesquely carved pipe, and gestured to Ulfric’s left hand. “Here, I’ll heal that.”

There was a thin stream of blood trickling down Ulfric’s wrist, dripping off the point of his elbow. He was trying to remember where the nearest bandages were, and regretting his haste.

Fane rolled his eyes at Ulfric’s look. “Free of charge. I’m a very good healer, I promise.”

The healing spell was an unwelcome balm, immediately soothing the sharp pain shooting down his arm. As Ulfric watched in the white-gold light, the blood stopped and flesh grew up around the white specks of bone, hiding them from sight. Then the clean-sliced edges of his skin writhed and crawled in over the new flesh, sealing everything in.

Ulfric jerked back from Fane’s grasp, flexing the remaining fingers. There wasn’t even any lingering pain, which was just wrong. Even healing potions took time, and left you a scar to remember it by. Ulfric’s hand looked like he’d lost the finger in a childhood accident.

Fane smirked again, the movement drawing Ulfric’s eyes to the finger between his teeth. It was moving slightly in time with his jaw, bobbing up and down. It looked shorter.

“Get out,” Ulfric snarled. “And if I ever see you again, I will have you killed, I swear it.”


	3. Blood

Ulfric looked out over his gathered army as he spoke, eyes searching for a flash of red. Despite his warning, he’d expected Fane to turn up here, if only to watch Ulfric fail without his help.

_That’s not going to happen._

“...full of lords who are mighty, powerful, and free! Ready now, everyone, with me! For the sons and daughters of Skyrim!”

Ulfric turned around and gave the order for the shield wall to advance. Arrows rained down from the walls next to the gate, the archers hoping to hit upon one of the fleeting gaps in the shield. It was to no avail for them; the advance party, Ulfric included, sheltered in the lee of the massive gate.

“Reform behind,” Ulfric ordered. “Get as far back as you can.”

His guard spread out, crouching under shields as Ulfric faced the massive ironwood gates. Only Galmar remained by his side, holding a shield over the both of them.

Ulfric took a deep breath and Shouted: “ **Fus… ro-DAH**!”

The gates crumpled inward as though they were driftwood hit with a battering ram. The army behind Ulfric cheered as one, sending up a clattering roar of noise as the shields slammed into each other.

“Advance!” Ulfric ordered, pitching his voice to carry.

It seemed as though half the Imperial army was waiting for them inside, though the flying debris from the gates had taken out a swath directly in front.

“Galmar, the walls!”

“Consider them ours, Ulfric,” Galmar promised, peeling off a party to capture the walls and the archers on them. He took with him their two mages, whose fire and wards would be invaluable in taking the stairs.

Ulfric advanced with the rest of the front, allowing two men to take their place in front of him. Much as he would prefer to be in the thick of it, that wasn’t a commander’s place. When one young bloodied soldier started up the inclined path to the blacksmith and fletcher, and the castle’s side entrance, Ulfric pulled him back by the quiver strapped on his back.

“No, lad,” he said, “That one’s an iron gate and a bottleneck besides. We’re after a bigger target.”

The lad looked at him with starry eyes and nodded, speechless. Ulfric let him go and watched him cut nearly in half a minute later, by an orc wearing the Imperial uniform and wielding a steel battleaxe.

The orc grunted as he lifted the axe and the body still stuck on it, swinging again to get the boy’s corpse off. Ulfric grimly picked up the round shield the boy had dropped, slipping his arm through the straps and tightening it with two quick pulls. He banged his axe against the metal center and got the orc’s attention.

They were barely past the market. They still had to break through the barricades leading up to the castle, and then through the castle’s gates, and this orsimer wasn’t going to be the one to stop him.

Ulfric roared, “ **Fus**!” and the orc went down like a felled tree; top-heavy like all of his kind. Ulfric pushed his chance, turning his axe in his hand so that the spike faced out and swung it into the felled orc’s knee. The point sank home between armor plates and ripped free with a splash of blood. The orc howled and kicked out wildly.

Ulfric jumped out of range, spinning his axe again, and waited for his opening. Smaller fights raged around them, Stormcloak against Imperial.

The orc managed to heave himself up onto one foot, the other not taking much of his weight. Ulfric taunted him again, banging axe against shield, and watched a red spark light up behind those tiny piggish eyes. The orc burst into movement, throwing himself at Ulfric regardless of his wounded knee. He couldn’t feel the pain and the damage itself wasn’t crippling enough to stop him.

Ulfric ducked the first swing of the double-headed battleaxe, and drove the dagger he’d hidden in his shield hand up under the breastplate into the orc’s heart. He didn’t see the second swing coming, momentum carrying through even with the orc dead and falling backward.

The world turned and flickered past as Ulfric rolled. He came to a stop against the wall near archway leading down to the residential district, laying on his back. It was a bright, sunny day, though a little chilly in the shadow of the masonry. It made the liquid warmth spreading across his abdomen stand out even more.

One of the lieutenants shouted, “To the Jarl! Stormcloaks, to the Jarl!”

Men formed up around him. The lieutenant who’d taken initiative looked familiar, Ulfric thought, when the man’s face loomed above him blocking out the sky. Ralof, from Riverwood. From Helgen.

“Sir, we’ve got you,” said Ralof. He looked up at the men. “Healing potions? Come on, who has a health potion. Here,” he received a red vial from someone and held it to Ulfric’s lips. “Here, you’re gonna be fine.”

Ulfric was not going to be fine, and he knew it. His heart’s blood was spilling out with every beat, each weaker than the last. A full philter wouldn’t cut it, and they didn’t even have that.

“I’ll get another,” Ralof said quickly, and his head disappeared leaving Ulfric with a clear view of the sky again. There were already vultures beginning to circle the battlefield.

He squinted. Vultures didn’t look like that.

“No more healing potions, sir, we have to go back,” Ralof knelt next to him again. “Me’n Sig will carry you--”

“No,” Ulfric said, struggling to sit up at least half way. He took a deep breath, eyes rolling against the sickening pain beginning to radiate from his side. He Shouted, “ **Dovahkiin**!”

The wrong-looking vulture folded its wings and began to dive. It kept diving, long after an actual vulture would have reached the ground, because the dragon had been so high up to look so small. It landed on top of the arch with an ear-throbbing beat of its massive wings, and craned its head down to stare at Ulfric. A figure mounted on its back slid down the neck, catching handholds on the spikes, and landed at Ulfric’s feet.

“It seems you’re in need of my assistance once again, my lord,” Fane said, smiling. He was nearly chirpy, bouncing on the balls of his feet as though he had energy to spare.

“What will it... cost me... this time?” Ulfric asked, having to take breaths in between the words. He knew that couldn’t be a good sign.

Fane tilted his head from side to side. “Not your life, which is more than I can say for that wound.”

“Fane!” Ulfric snapped.

Fane grinned and winked. “For your life and the crown… that’s going to cost you. Hm. I think I’ll take an eye.”

An eye for his life and a free Skyrim. “Take it, then.” Ulfric growled. “And heal me. I have a war to win.”

Ralof moved out of the way so that Fane could take his place, kneeling next to the Jarl. His hands glowed with a restoration spell, and the half-familiar heat of it spread over Ulfric. He nearly groaned with the instant relief it brought, head lolling back on a suddenly weak neck.

Fane turned his head as he worked, saying something in a harsh and guttural tongue. The dragon took off, presumably to do its master’s bidding.

“There,” said Fane, closing his hands and cutting off the spell. “As good as new.”

Ulfric got his knees under him and stood up with more ease than he had in years. Even his bad leg, half-ruined in the escape from Helgen, felt like it was twenty years old again. He held out a hand to Ralof and said, “Axe.”

A handle was slapped into his palm. The shield was still strapped to his left arm. He was as ready as anyone could ever be.

“Stormcloaks, behind me!” he shouted, pushing through the rank that had formed up protectively around him. They fell in behind, leaving Ulfric as the point of a spear that would drive into the heart of Castle Dour.

Fane was right behind, ensconced safely within the mass. A red mist boiled off of him, infecting the soldiers with a senseless, bloody madness. The enraged men and women stayed in formation but only just, and they fought like animals, swinging their weapons without form but enough power to make up for the lack. An Imperial who tried to catch the blow of a club on his shield found himself shattered under it instead.

“This is what you used at Helgen?” Ulfric asked as he stared up the hill to the iron gates of Castle Dour. If Galmar hadn’t managed to take the walls, those gates would not be opening. The hill itself was a gauntlet, with archers positioned on the towers just waiting for Ulfric's group to get close enough.

“One of my favorites,” Fane confirmed. “Oh, look, your friend.”

Galmar was visible now, advancing along the nearest wall. He’d made it up the stairs and captured some ground, but it had cost him half of his party and one of the mages. They were going to be too slow.

“Allow me,” Fane said, clapping Ulfric on the shoulder as he moved in front. He pointed at the wall and whistled, sharp and piercing, as though for a hound. A fireball came crashing down out of the sparse cloud cover, clearing one of the towers in an instant. Another moment, another whistle, and another fireball had emptied the second tower. Galmar’s path to the gate controls was free.

It wasn’t needed, however. Fane Shouted a word, one Ulfric didn’t know and couldn’t understand, and the iron of the gate grew dark. As they watched, it rusted and corroded, eaten away by centuries of wear in seconds. The bars fell from their crumbling housings and turned into dust on the ground.

“Your turn,” said Fane into Ulfric’s ear as he retook his place behind the Jarl.

“Talos preserve us,” Ulfric whispered. He led the charge up the hill.

There were more Imperials inside the castle courtyard, but it was almost easy now. They ran at Ulfric’s advance guard with fearful wide animal eyes, in no kind of formation or order, and hit their fellows as often as they hit his Stormcloaks. Fane folded his arms into his sleeves and walked serene and untouched through the battlefield, going to stand by a wooden door reinforced with iron bands. Four Imperials standing guard collapsed as he approached, seemingly of no attack at all.

Ulfric heard a shout and looked to see Galmar on the walls. His old friend dropped a coil of rope and used it to slide down to the ground, landing heavily in his armor and armament. They rejoined each other in a calm space between two knots of fighting.

“Seen no sign of Tullius,” Galmar reported gruffly. “You?”

Ulfric nodded toward where Fane seemed to be waiting for them. “I was mortally wounded, the Dragonborn saved my life and promised his help. Which makes me think that Tullius is probably over there, behind that door.”

Galmar looked, and then turned back to Ulfric. He said, tiredly, “I hope you know what you’re doing, old friend.”

Ulfric’s blood was singing, victory within his grasp. He’d never felt more sure of anything in his life. An eye for Skyrim? He would have given more.

Fane smiled as they approached, reaching behind himself to push the door open. If it had been locked, it wasn’t any more. The small anteroom beyond was oppressively silent after the noise of fighting outside, muffled as the heavy door swung shut behind them.

“Secure the door,” Ulfric ordered, moving cautiously further into the room.

“Already done,” Galmar promised. He nodded to the two Stormcloaks he’d picked up along the way, and they took up guard to either side.

Beyond the arch was the Imperials’ war room. Only two inhabitants: Rikke and General Tullius, backed into a corner for defense. The general sat on a bench, leaning his elbows on his knees, as though too tired to sit up straight.

Ulfric gritted his teeth, raised his head, and went to face his destiny.

* * *

“I’ll need to give a speech,” Ulfric said, half to Galmar but mostly to himself. He’d planned a victory speech, of course, but now the words seemed to pale in comparison to the reality of the day.

Fane stepped out of a shadow, nudging Tullius' head out of his path with one foot as he approached. “I think I should collect on our deal before you do that,” he said, stopping within arm’s reach. Ulfric’s expression flared up in anger, and he added, “For your benefit, of course. It’s a lot easier to explain such a wound if it happens _before_ the battle is officially over, not well after.”

The mutt made a good point. Ulfric glanced down at Rikke, whose body still lay where it had fallen; at least she wasn’t alive to see this. “Leave us, Galmar,” Ulfric ordered.

“Ulfric…”

“Leave us,” the jarl said again. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you in a moment.”

Galmar left with one last hateful glare at Fane.

Fane watched him go, then said, “You know, he’s going to try to kill me very soon.”

“Frankly, I’m shocked no one has succeeded already,” Ulfric replied, shifting from one foot to the other uneasily. He wondered how Fane was going to take his reward this time. He wondered if he would have to do it himself again, and knew he didn’t have the strength for that.

“Many have tried; some have succeeded. It never seems to stick.” Fane looked Ulfric up and down, then gestured to the chair at the war table. “You’re going to want to sit down for this one, Jarl.”

Ulfric put his axe on the table and sat down. He loosened the straps on the shield and set that on the table as well, shaking out the arm to return some blood flow. “Are you going to eat this piece of me as well?” he asked, morbidly curious.

“No, my lord.” Fane moved around behind him. There was the shift and clatter of his necklaces moving as he pulled something out of that abominable breast pocket. “I have a jar of preserved eyes, in fact. I won’t put yours in there--the eye of a king is worth more than the others I’ve collected.”

“...I don’t understand you, Fane,” Ulfric admitted. A gentle hand on top of his head tilted it back, resting against the top of the chair looking straight up.

The Dragonborn’s face appeared above him, upside down, smiling slightly. “Someday, if you’re very unlucky, I might explain it to you.”

The clawed hand cupped Ulfric’s jaw, holding his head braced against the middle of Fane’s chest. A purple glow lit up behind Ulfric’s eyes, which went wide with a sudden panic.

“It’s a paralysis spell,” Fane explained kindly. Something silvery flashed in the corner of Ulfric’s vision; he couldn’t turn his head to get a better look. “It’s better if you can’t move for this part. A flinch at the wrong time and I might ruin more than I mean to. You’re still going to feel it, though.”

Ulfric imagined a free Skyrim, imagined bleeding out in Solitude’s market with his destiny still unmet, and braced for it as well as he could. It wasn’t enough.


	4. Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, the end.

“The guards say you won’t name yourself High King until the Moot does it for you.”

The wine in Ulfric’s goblet sloshed as he jerked in surprise, but he seemed to be adjusting to Fane’s habit of appearing silently in a supposedly secure room. He put the goblet down on the table, lounged back in the chair, and said, “That is as it should be. A High King must be elected from among his peers, not declared by himself.”

Despite this and his other political words on the subject, Ulfric had taken Jarl Elisif’s rooms when she reluctantly offered them to her ‘honored guest.’ The High King’s bedroom was wide and airy, though the ceilings weren’t so grandly vaulted as Ulfric’s room in the Palace of Kings. Ulfric had retired here after a long day of organizing his garrison to receive the other Jarls, arriving soon.

“A wise man looking to be made High King would make sure his peers were men and women appointed by himself, loyal to him, as you did,” Fane pointed out. The Dragonborn’s voice was coming from almost directly behind him. Ulfric shuddered involuntarily, for a moment flashing back to that dark room in Castle Dour. “Do you always wait for others to do what you could do yourself?”

Ulfric’s eye flared in outrage. He stood so fast the chair toppled and landed on its back, as he whirled around. “What in oblivion is that supposed to mean?”

He stopped. Fane had a new necklace.

The glasswork was exquisitely clear and perfectly spherical, with no visible seam. It must have taken magic to shape it so perfectly around the disembodied eye floating within, and it must be magic that kept it looking as fresh as when Fane had carved it out of Ulfric’s socket eight days ago.

“Oh, do you like it?” Fane asked, lifting the cord it was mounted on. The cord was also strung with a tooth and three small bones. “I’m quite proud of how it turned out. My jeweler said it couldn’t be done. Well, actually, she said it _shouldn’t_ be done, but anything else would have felt like a waste.”

Ulfric was staring himself in the eye, and he didn’t like it. The strap of his new blue eyepatch, imprinted with his own bear standard, felt like it was slipping down again. Adjusting it roughly, he asked, “What do you want, Dragonborn? You only show up when you think I need you.”

“Well, I intended this as a coronation gift, but you’re not the High King yet.” Fane looked down to dig into the stachel at his hip. He came out holding the Jagged Crown. “I’ll just hold onto it for now, shall I?”

“Give that to me.” Ulfric held a hand out, eye fixed on the crown. The old verse came easily to mind: _maw unleashing razor snow, of dragons from the blue brought down; births the walking winter's woe, the High King in his Jagged Crown_. The same as worn by Harald and every High King up to Borgas. It rightfully belonged to Ulfric, should be resting on his brow.

Fane held the crown in both hands, the front facing himself, tilting it this way and that as if to look for imperfections. He looked at Ulfric over the spikes and smirked, sharp teeth flashing. “If you want it,” he said, deliberately, “Then get on your knees.”

The muscles in Ulfric’s neck stood out tense as he controlled himself. The empty eye socket, even fully healed, seemed to burn and throb with his fury. His remaining eye narrowed.

Ulfric had never kneeled to anyone; he didn’t intend to begin now, in front of this creature wearing his desperation as its trophies. “No.”

“I promised you the crown,” said the Dragonborn. “If you want to _wear_ it, you will kneel or I will make you.”

Ulfric knew that his only chance was to move too quickly for Fane to stop him. He unsheathed and threw the dagger from his hip in one complete movement, following it up by lunging for the Jagged Crown between them. He got a grip on one of the spikes and froze.

“That’s all right, Ulfric,” Fane said, nearly tender. “I know you had to try. Let go. Now on your knees.”

His body moved without asking and despite his silent protests. Ulfric let go of the crown and knelt in front of Fane, head slumped forward. A clawed finger under his chin raised it so he was looking up at the Dragonborn again.

The dagger was where he’d thrown it, buried in Fane’s unarmored chest right where his heart should be. It didn’t seem to be bothering him at all.

Fane smiled and took the Jagged Crown in both hands again. With careful ceremony, he raised it up and lowered it over Ulfric’s head. “My king,” he murmured as it came to rest. Ulfric stared up with one wide eye.

Fane sighed and went over to the table, leaving Ulfric kneeling and staring at nothing. He picked up the half-empty goblet of wine and drained it, then poured two more. He turned around, leaned against the table, sipped the wine and said, “Let’s hear it.”

Ulfric regained control all at once, almost falling forward. He got to his feet slowly and turned around. Fane stayed where he was, though he noticed that Ulfric was staring at the dagger in his chest.

“Oh, right.” Fane took hold of the hilt and yanked it out. There was no blood on the blade when he laid it on the table next to the other goblet of wine.

“You never intended to honor the oath about not using your magic on me,” Ulfric said after a moment.

Fane rolled his eyes. “Of course not. I commend my soul to the Void? Please. Someone will have to kill me first, and that’s harder than it appears to be. If the Dread Father wants it that badly, he’ll have to fight Vile, Namira, Herma-Mora, and probably some of the others for it.”

“Your power… comes from the Daedra.”

Fane took pity on the lost-looking Ulfric, and handed him the goblet of wine. “Yes, if you consider knowledge to be power. They gave me nothing for free.”

Ulfric drained the cup, then grabbed the rest of the bottle and drank straight from that. He was compromised more completely now than the day he walked out of the Thalmor’s clutches. He could not be the High King while he was slaved to the bidding of this creature.

Fane laughed into his own goblet, gold eyes crinkled with mirth.

“Is there something amusing to you?” Ulfric demanded. But if he didn’t step down, he would have the resources to investigate the Dragonborn more thoroughly, find a way to kill him, or a way out….

“I’m imagining what you’re thinking right now, and I’ve just gotten to the part where you plan to kill me.” Fane was grinning even as he said it. “You’re going to try beheading first, right?”

 _He can listen to my thoughts_ , Ulfric thought with alarm.

“No, I’m no mind reader. I just know you, Ulfric. If I want to know what you will do, I only have to ask myself: what would _I_ do in your place?”

“We are _nothing_ alike,” Ulfric growled, hands curling into fists at his side. He briefly contemplated trying to punch Fane again, just for the satisfaction.

Fane shook his head. “You and I are exactly the same, Ulfric,” he said as he reached up to his face and wiped away an illusion, leaving the truth behind: a mass of red scars around his eye sockets, his unnatural eyes now slit-pupiled and gold all the way across. There were straight surgical cuts stretching from either corner of his mouth to the hinge of his jaw, long healed; someone had opened his mouth like a snake’s. For the first time, Ulfric realized that Fane’s razor teeth might not be ones he grew himself.

Next, Fane rolled up his right sleeve to expose a pale forearm. His three clawed, armored rings connected over the back of his hand to one of the bracelets around his wrist. He continued speaking, casually, “Tullius refused to bargain with me, though I know not whether it was because he felt assured of victory or because he valued himself higher than his cause.”

He flicked a clasp open on the bracelet, and the whole contraption slid off to the floor. “Balgruuf refused for fear of later consequences; the man never met a problem he didn’t want to compromise on.”

Fane held up his bare hand, showing Ulfric the stubs of his three middle digits, only the littlest and the thumb left whole. Behind it, his ruined face was twisted with a sick satisfaction. “But you and I... we sell ourselves so willingly for power. We wouldn’t give it up for anything.

“Right now you’re still pretending to yourself that you might abdicate the throne. Soon you’ll decide that you don’t trust anyone else with the job, that you’ve given up too much to stop now. That greed is the dragon in you; I just wear mine a little closer to the surface.”

Ulfric glanced from the mutilated hand to the necklace made from his flesh and bone, and wondered who was wearing Fane as an ornament. Eventually he found his voice. “Why?”

“Everyone wants a piece of the Dragonborn.” Fane explained as he sat on the table and pulled off one of his boots, revealing that it was empty, somehow; his leg ended just below the knee. He frowned at it. “And the Daedra rarely want paying in coin.”

“No, why _me_?” Ulfric clarified. Then, “Stop!”

Fane looked up from the bracer he was removing from his remaining hand, picking at the laces with his two fingers.

Ulfric closed his eyes and repeated, “Stop. I’ve seen enough.”

Fane shrugged. “I already told you the once. I like pain. I like watching other people make the same choices I’ve made. Whether they pick up the knife for love, money, or power... they always regret it at the end. As though the deal wasn’t freely struck. As though they didn’t _know_." He scoffed disgustedly. "It satisfies me to watch those weak-willed creatures rot themselves from the inside out.”

“You don’t regret it,” Ulfric said, the thought barely formed before it ripped its way out of him. _You and I are the same, and I’d give more than an eye for Skyrim._ Gesturing to the ravaged, half-missing body, he added, “Becoming this crippled, twisted... thing.”

“I do not.” Fane’s scars streched his grin to monstrous proportion in the candlelight. “Only fools reach for an ambition they aren’t prepared to live with."

With stiff, halting movements Ulfric righted the chair he'd knocked over, pulled it up to the table, and sat. The Jagged Crown was not light, but a king couldn't cradle his head in his hands to bear the weight. He raised his eye to Aetherius and searched his heart for a different truth. All he found were the words Fane had already read out of his soul.

In the morning, he was going to go to the gates of Solitude and welcome the first of the other Jarls. In the coming days the Moot would convene and elect him High King, soon after which he would have to defend Skyrim's borders--from the Empire, from the Dominion; the enemy hardly mattered. And if he wasn't good enough, if there came a battle he couldn't afford to lose, he knew that he would call on the Dragonborn again.

Fane set his wrecked hand on Ulfric's shoulder as he leaned in, put his mouth right next to the Ulfric's ear, and whispered a promise: "They're going to remember your name for _eras_ , King Ulfric.”

* * *

> _Slowly, bit-by-bit, he counted the money,  
>  One coin at a time, dropping each through  
>  His trembling, traitors' fingers. Each caught the light,  
>  Shimmered white in the fire,  
>  The etchings highlighted, harsh and steel—  
>  It was all there, all thirty pieces.  
>  Thirty pieces, for his soul.  
>  Thirty pieces, and they weren't even gold. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem credit to [tigriswolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/pseuds/tigriswolf) who wrote it for their SPN fic [run on for a long time](https://tigriswolf.livejournal.com/182679.html).
> 
> The goal of this fic was to transmit my nightmare/dream directly into your brains through words. Let me know if that worked.


End file.
